“Poor boy,” she murmured, “it isn’t even right for you to think of that.”
Then, because there were things we dared not mention, we fell to talking about Dorrie, how she was growing, how she was losing her lisp, and all the tender little coaxing ways she had of making people happy.
We came out of the woods on the road which led back to Sheba. The lights twinkling ahead and the occasional travelers passing, robbed us of the danger of being alone together. I think she had been waiting for that.
“Dante,” she said, smiling at me bravely, “there is only one thing for you to do—you must marry.”
“Marry,” I exclaimed, “some woman whom I don’t love!”
“Not that,” she said; “but many men learn to love a second woman. I’ve often thought you should be happy with Ruthita; you love her already. After you had had children, you’d soon forget me. You’d be able to smile about it. Then it would be easier for me to forget.”
My answer was a tortured whisper. “It’s impossible; I’m not made like that. For my own peace of mind I almost wish I were.”
We came to the gate of her house. Across the snow, beneath the gloom of elms lighted windows smote the darkness with bars of gold. Within one of the rooms a man was stirring; he came to the panes and looked out, watching for her return.
“He’s always like that; he can’t bear to be without me. I had one of my moods this evening, when I want to be alone—he knew it.”
“When you wanted to think of me; that’s what you meant—why didn’t you say it?”